


Tell Me That You'll (Open Your Eyes)

by tuesday



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-11
Updated: 2010-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-07 21:22:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesday/pseuds/tuesday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dean, look at me," Castiel's voice whispered soft and low in Dean's ears, dragging a curl of pleasure down Dean's spine at the sound alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Me That You'll (Open Your Eyes)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shirozora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shirozora/gifts).



> This is quite possibly the most sappy, embarrassing shit I have ever written. I feel horrified on Dean's behalf. I feel horrified on my behalf. There is only one path this fic leads down, and that is one of ruination. You have been warned. I actually wrote most of this to [Undisclosed Desires](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R8OOWcsFj0U&feature=related), which is my Castiel/Dean theme song right now, but for the content, it may as well have been [Open Your Eyes](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sGRcOIKnT6U). Written for Shirozora for a personal exchange. (Shirozora, I can only apologize for this.) This fic's handwaving moment brought to you by: the whole vessel and consent issue. I really do have Jimmy fic in the works and fic dealing with the possible loss of Jimmy between Castiel's last scene in S4 &amp; his first scene of S5, but this isn't any of those fic. You can choose your own handwaving explanation (from: Jimmy never existed and Castiel's vessel is his own, lalala, to: Castiel woke up without him), but for the purposes of this fic, he is not a factor.

"Dean, look at me," Castiel's voice whispered soft and low in Dean's ears, dragging a curl of pleasure down Dean's spine at the sound alone. His breath puffed warm against Dean's chin with every word. "Open your eyes."

Dean always tried to keep his eyes closed when he bottomed, his mouth shut, teeth grinding together as he choked back embarrassing, horrifying noises, pride warring with a near endless need.

"Dean." Castiel's lips pressed soft against Dean's mouth, his chin, the small, sensitive corner where his jaw met his ear. His tongue flicked against Dean's earlobe, then his teeth gently tugged at it, and Dean could feel every breath like a brand across his skin. "Dean."

The sound Dean made in return was _not_ a whimper, but it was a close call.

In response, Castiel slowly eased back in, moving at a torturous pace, like they had all the time in the world; like it wasn't the fucking apocalypse, there were no angels after them, and they were the only two beings left alive; like this cheap motel room with its lumpy mattress and scratchy sheets was the entire expanse of the universe. He moved so slowly that Dean couldn't help but be painfully aware of every dragging centimeter as Cas pressed in. Dean's knees were thrown over Castiel's shoulders, his thighs practically pressed to his chest, and he felt every minor movement along the entire length of his body. Castiel slid in the rest of the way and just rested there a moment, pressed his forehead to Dean's. His hair brushed Dean's temple, an unsteady, teasing itch that failed to distract from how Dean felt like one long sensitive flayed out nerve laid bare before Castiel.

"Dean," Castiel whispered, voice grating low this time, and Dean was grateful to catch the ragged edge in Castiel's voice, to know that Dean wasn't the only one so affected that it felt like he was shaking apart inside, each sound and touch setting off sparks and miniature supernovas in his chest. No matter the calm, measured way Castiel rocked in and out of Dean, Dean wasn't alone in his fierce desperation. Dean's hands clutched at Castiel's hard, smooth shoulders like a lifeline, but Castiel's voice shook as he said: "Please."

"I can't," Dean said, voice raw, each heady instant of pleasure cracking him further open and leaving him exposed, like a hermit crab being pried steadily from its shell. "I can't, Cas, I can't—"

Castiel's lips covered Dean's own, his tongue nudging Dean's mouth open and sliding in like a counter-argument and a comfort rolled into one. His kisses kept to the same devastating pace as his thrusts: he carefully mapped Dean's mouth like he was committing every inch to memory, was planning to move in and stay a while.

When Castiel finally pulled his mouth away, Dean's breath was a harsh, wild thing rattling through his chest; his hands were clenched so hard into the wings of Castiel's shoulder blades, Dean was sure he was leaving bruises; and still Dean couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. Dean felt Castiel bury his face into the side of Dean's neck, Castiel's nose digging softly into tendon, each exhale like a brief warm fog against his skin. The noises Castiel made now were nothing like words, and he shifted, changed the angle so that the next roll of his hips hit that spot deep inside Dean, drew aching pangs of pleasure with every subsequent thrust.

Dean was saying the most embarrassing shit, now, outright begging for Castiel to thrust harder, move faster, give him anything, so long as it was _more_. "Whatever you want," Dean promised rashly, barely hearing his own words over the rushing staccato of his pulse pounding in his ears. "Anything."

Something keen-edged and dangerous was unspooling deep inside him, and every grounding touch of Castiel's hands was undone with each sharp stroke driving in. And the thing that killed Dean was that Castiel didn't ask, demanded nothing in return as he mouthed at Dean's neck, his cheek, his ear, anywhere he could touch without letting up his steady, implacable pace. Castiel never asked when Dean got to this point, never forced the issue once Dean was reduced to this writhing mess of need. He didn't ask, and so Dean couldn't help but give it to him.

This close up, Dean could see each individual strand of Castiel's hair, could watch the thin, pale light of the lamp burnish the dark locks a softer brown and dance along the crown of his head with every trembling movement. It graced the stubbled planes of Castiel's cheek and jaw, traced the arc of his nose and caught at the curves of his lips where his face wasn't cast into shadow. Dean wanted to follow wherever the light touched with his lips, chase the shadows with his fingers, his tongue. He wanted to sprinkle reverential kisses along Castiel's brow, press them gently against the delicate fan of his eyelashes, drop them into the corners of Castiel's chapped lips like a light, unsteady rain. Looking, Dean _wanted_ so much more.

Castiel stared back, because after all this time, Dean had never been able to train him out of watching like he was peeling back layers to strip Dean's thoughts bare, like all the shed clothes and slick skin and sliding together was foreplay for _this_, this exact moment as Castiel locked their gazes and looked at Dean like he could see him right down to the soul. It was even more embarrassing than the begging, the way Castiel communicated with eyes alone his acceptance, his affection, his unwavering regard. Normal people just _didn't do that_.

"Dean. I have you," Castiel said softly, his voice a soft burr in Dean's ears, one small final nudge that shredded the last of his defenses. "Let go."

"Shit," Dean managed weakly, and that was it, he was gone, the aching spiral in his stomach snapping suddenly and racing like lightning down his spine, scattering across every nerve and drawing tight every muscle, and still Dean couldn't close his eyes, couldn't tear his gaze away. Castiel watched him through it all, eyes soft, the thin line of his mouth gentle, as he whispered words Dean couldn't quite hear through the aftermath.

Castiel only relented and finally—finally—released Dean from that too intimate stare when he closed his eyes and followed after.


End file.
